by L. A. Meyer
Our fleet, which was comprised of the Lorelei Lee, commanded by Miss Faber; the Cerberus, Mr. James Fletcher commanding; and HMS Dart, captained by Lieutenant Joseph Jared, Royal Navy, left Australia in the month of November and was proceeding north when it encountered a typhoon of horrific dimensions. I have not words to describe the awesome power of that maelstrom. Suffice it to say that it was powerful enough to tear off the foremast of the Lorelei Lee and, taking with it, our own dear Miss Faber.
After that fateful storm, we repaired damage as best we could and commenced a thorough search for Miss Faber, or her remains, up and down the Strait of Malacca, but we could find nothing, not a single remnant—no bones, no body, nothing. We took on translators of the various languages of the area and put into many ports inquiring as to her possible whereabouts but learned nothing. Eventually, after several weeks of fruitless search, we were forced to face the awful truth, and give up and push on.
We met the Nancy B. Alsop at the top of the Straits of Malacca yesterday. Yes, it is a very big world and a very large ocean, but the Straits of Malacca are narrow, and by good fortune we did manage to meet.
You will of course recall, Mr. Pickering, that I had sent a letter to Captain Liam Delaney from the port of Gibraltar some months ago, relating to him the fact that both Miss Faber and his daughter Mairead Delaney McConnaughey had been condemned to servitude in the penal colony at New South Wales and were being transported there in the Lorelei Lee, newly requisitioned by the East India Company, and if it was his wish, he was authorized to go to Boston and take command of the schooner Nancy B. Alsop to attempt a rescue. I sent a letter to you at that time, informing you of my actions in that regard. Since he appeared yesterday on the horizon in command of the Nancy B., it was apparent to me that he took us up on our offer.
The joy of the reunion with former shipmates was, of course, dashed by the news of Miss Faber's demise.
As for others of Miss Faber's acquaintance, I regret to say that Mr. James Emerson Fletcher grows ever more melancholy by the day, if that is possible. He is sustained only by his fierce and all-consuming desire for revenge on those who brought Miss Faber to that fatal crossroads of her destiny. I see him standing at the rail of his ship, standing there for hours, looking out across the sea.
Others try to bring him cheer, but he does not accept it, poor man. He says only, "I live on my hatred and my rage. It eats at me, but it also sustains me. I will have my vengeance. Count on it."
Although he continues to be a competent master and commander of his ship, I do fear for the condition of his mind. In fact, I fear for his very sanity.
Lieutenant Joseph Jared grew up at sea and therefore, like others of his fatalistic seagoing ilk, is philosophical concerning life and death, since death is always very close and very present when on the unpredictable and wasteful ocean. Looking out over the waves at the scudding clouds on the horizon, he says, "We loved her, and in our hearts and our minds and our memories she will never grow any older, for whatever consolation that gives those of us left here behind. Her life was short, but she lived it as she wanted and she certainly packed a lot in to the short time she had. Jacky was given nine lives and I guess she finally used them all up. Rest in peace, Puss."
The fleet departed at dawn this morning on a northerly course, heading, for the most part, back to England. The Lorelei Lee, with her Irish crew, will part company with the rest at the bottom tip of Africa, and at that time will set her course for Boston to rejoin Faber Shipping Worldwide yet again.
On the Nancy B. Alsop, we raised anchor and headed south.
Yes, Captain Delaney has elected to make one more trip down the Straits of Malacca to search for Miss Faber, or her remains, saying, "She should have a proper burial, at least. We owe her that much. If she can be found, we will find her—and if she has to be buried on a heathen shore, then so be it. No sailor wants to be buried at sea."
He felt that the Nancy B., being much smaller than the other ships in Miss Faber's former fleet, would be able to sail closer to the shore and to nip into smaller coves and inlets that would have proved dangerous to the larger ships, and so possibly gain better information as to Miss Faber's sad end and the disposition of her remains.
I heartily concurred in that and have elected to go with him. Although there is virtually no chance that she has survived, still a faint glimmer of hope remains.
No music is heard on the now somber decks of the Nancy B.
I grieve with you and all of Miss Faber's friends, and I am Yr most Obedient and etc.
John Higgins
Chapter 10
And so the Eastern Star sails up into the Bay of Bengal, with a sturdy crew of two.
Back at sea, girl, and in your own boat. Ahhh, yes!
I named my new sailing skiff the Eastern Star in keeping with her sister boats back in Boston, the Morning Star and the Evening Star. She is about sixteen feet long, well-found, and a good little sailor, and she's the newest addition to the fleet of Faber Shipping Worldwide. I shall have to write to Ezra Pickering and have her added to the holdings of that Corporation.
I do like the deep yellow color of her hull and the maroon of her single sail, and I love the sun on my face and the sound of the sea slipping by under the Stars bottom.
I was further delighted, upon commandeering this craft, to discover many fish lines and hooks stashed under the gunwales. Some jugs of water, to boot—nothing was too good for the badmash. And two of those lovely cast nets, too! Joy!
I have taught Ravi the rudiments of sailing, and he seems to enjoy it—his hand on the mainsheet, his eye on the tautness of the sail. As I lie back and let Ravi guide us on ever northward, I hook an ankle over the port gunwale and wonder how Jaimy and Jared are getting along with me being out of the way. Probably pretty good, I'll wager... 'Course they got some things to resolve in the way of duty and male honor and all, but I do hope they'll work it out, I do. Maybe it'll be easier without my troublesome presence. Who knows? Certainly not me.
"Memsahib! Something on line!"
I jerk myself back into my present circumstances.
One of the fish lines is jerking violently, so I leap over to grab it and begin hauling it in. Whatever is on the other end is fighting mightily, but he shall not prevail. Oh, no you shan't, fishy, for Jacky Faber is too hungry for that!
After we had first taken the boat, we had sailed maybe fifteen miles up the coast. Then, as evening was about to fall, we headed into a nice little cove to dig some more clams. Both of us are heartily sick of them and think longingly of the simple meal we had at Arun's humble home, but we must eat something. We did not finish all of them but instead wrapped a goodly number in wet seaweed so as to have something with which to bait our hooks when we sailed away on the morrow. I climbed for more coconuts, as well, and we stashed some extra ones in the boat for later use. We also took the time to prepare the Star for the night, stretching our canvas across the lowered boom of the sail, making a very acceptable tent within the boat's hull.
We then took our sturdy little craft out into the gentle surf and threw out the anchor—yes, the badmash had one aboard, bless him. Hey, maybe the sod has earned some karma points, who knows? And then, as full night was upon us, Ravi and I, wrapped in each other's arms and lying on the hard hull of the Eastern Star, were rocked gently to sleep.
I yank the thrashing fish into the boat and, by God, it's a good one! About eighteen inches long, all blue and silver stripes and flashing teeth. I pick up a club that—given the amount of dried fish scales that cling to it—has been put to this use many times before, and deliver the fish a hearty thwhack on his head, which stops his thrashing and sends him off to wherever fishies go when they leave their water world.
"Poor fishy soul now with Brahma," whispers Ravi, appalled once again by the slaughter.
As the fish's movements subside, I whip out my shiv and open up his belly and spill out his guts.
"Ha! Now that's a good-looking liver," I crow,
reaching into the mess and pulling out the bright red organ. I slap it down on the thwart and slice it neatly in half. I choose a piece and hold it over my mouth as if it is a crimson oyster and then let it slip down my throat. Ummm...
"Your turn, Ravi, do it now," I order. "It's good for you, and the Eastern Star must have a fit First Mate."
"To eat insides of poor creature that still quivers." Ravi shudders, shaking his head. "Hopes for garden slug in next life fading fast ... Maybe spider ... or lowly ant..." I hold the morsel over his open mouth and then drop it. He gags, but he chews and gets it down. Amazing what a little hunger will do for deciding what one will, or will not, eat.
I fillet the fish and lay pieces of the flesh on the gunwale to dry and to cook there in the fierce rays of the sun. We shall eat them later, when they turn white, and I'll wager they will be quite delicious ... A dash of pepper and lemon would be nice, but dipped in the sea for salt, they will be just fine, and hey, this ain't exactly Buckingham Palace, now, is it?
Neptune smiles upon us and we have great good luck in fishing this day, bagging five more of the silver darlings. I unravel a length of my rope and use a strand to thread through the gills of each new arrival and tie the whole stringer over the side so that the fish will stay alive till we go to market.
We have further luck when I put the carcass of the first fish on an especially long, heavy hook and heave it over the side. Late in the afternoon, that line goes rigid and I swear the side of the Star heels over under the pressure of whatever is on the other end of that line. After much struggle, the blunt head of a shark appears alongside, the hook gleaming in his toothy mouth.
"Look, lad, in that cove there—it's another small town. Let's head in there and see if we can sell our catch."
Ravi puts over the tiller, I tighten the sail, and we head in, the unfortunate shark trailing meekly behind.
Good ladies and gentlemens of this lovely town, please to listen to playing of happy tunes by Sangeeta, my beloved but hideously ugly sister. Pity us, good people, and please to place alms in our poor bowl so that we might eat. Lord Krishna will bless you, yes, and thank you, good lady, thank you, good man.
I think that approximates what Ravi is saying as he dances about, passing the bowl and begging for small change. He is quite good at it, for some coins do fall—I am sure Rooster Charlie would have welcomed the lad into our company back in our old kip 'neath Blackfriars Bridge.
***
At our first port of call on that day of the shark, we went ashore and sold the fish we had caught. The locals seemed astonished at the size of our catch, calling us blessed by the gods of the sea, and I guess we were. Thanks Poseidon, or whatever you are called here. I know full well that the fishmongers cheated us, but so it goes. Ravi bargained the best he could, but at least we now had some hard coin.
So with our meager funds, we went to the small market we found in the town and bought a flint striker so we could start fires and cook our food. Then, to reward ourselves for our virtue and cunning, we bought two rice balls, all greasy and golden yellow with curry and so delicious. It was our first neither-clam-nor-raw-fish meal in days, and we devoured our purchase instantly and without ceremony. Oh, so, so good...
And to top it all off, we bought what would prove to be a great little moneymaker—a simple wooden flute. It had eight holes and a fipple mouthpiece and a sort of bulb at the end, and though it was not tuned to the same scale as my beloved pennywhistle, I was able to make it work. Ravi sang some of the tunes of his youth and I was able to duplicate them enough to get us by. We are now an act.
I had some concern about my safety in all this, me being a helpless young girl practically alone in a foreign land, and had bounced the idea off Ravi of retreating into the protection of boy garb. After all, we had plenty of canvas that I could cut into sashes to bind down my chest, but my young Indian consort did not think that would serve.
"Forgive poor Ravi, for what I am about to say, Memsahib, but your bottom, though not round enough to please Burma man, still is too round to be boy. No, no. Also is abomination for girl to dress up as boy. Against the rules of nature. Ganesh not like and will bring us bad luck. Bad karma. And your face, though most dear to Ravi, is not pretty to India man—nose and lips too thin. Cheeks, too. Should be full and round like peaches. And your hair ... please ... is wrong color, like freak."
My hair, which had been shaved except for my pigtail at the back, was slowly growing back in. There was a light blond fuzz on my skull now, which had to look passing strange. My shiv, though sharp, was not a razor and could therefore not shave my head and keep it clean in the Chinese fashion.
"Your hair," the little rotter went on. "Tsk! You look like crazy woman, but maybe that is not a bad thing. Maybe we get more alms. Maybe mens leave you alone in ways of naughtiness."
For someone scarce eight years old, Ravi was certainly knowledgeable in the evil ways of the world. I'm thinkin', Nothing like a few years spent on the street to hone up the old survival skills.
And so it was decided that we travel up to Rangoon as boy Ravi and his mute and hideously ugly sister, Sangeeta. Couldn't have him call me Memsahib, now, could we? Ravi informed me that Sangeeta means "maker of music" in Hindi and so it fit... but hideously ugly? I know I am no rare beauty by any means, but still there have been more than a few gents in my past who thought I was passable handsome ... Geez...
We made up a crude canvas veil to hide my ugliness. It comes to below my eyes, yet leaves my lips free to play the flute.
Ravi went on, to elaborate, "If pushy man lifts veil, you make twisted face, and he will drop veil and not bother you. See? Is good, no?"
I suppose ... I do love being the center of attention, but not as a freak, I'm thinking. Oh, well ... Suck it up, lass. Sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do...
And so we progress up the coast, going from town to town—sailing for a day or two, then stopping in the nearest port to sell our catch and do our act. We never again have such good luck in fishing, but we do all right with our street-singing bit.
My disguise as girl-too-ugly-to-ravish works. In fact, one time a crude brute made so bold as to lunge at me as I played the whistle on a corner in one of the towns where we had managed to attract a small crowd. He lifted the veil, took a beady-eyed look, and then flung it back down again. It was so sudden, I didn't even have a chance to put on my ugly face. He then said something to much laughter from the small crowd we had gathered, and then looked very satisfied with himself.
After we had collected our few copper coins and were walking back to the Eastern Star, I asked Ravi what the man had said.
"Oh, it was nothing," he'd answered, not meeting my gaze. "Not worthy of Sister Sangeeta."
"Come on, Ravi," I snarled. "Out with it."
He sighed and said, "Not to get mad, Missy, but he say, 'To benefit unwary, unsuspecting man, she should have two veils over that face.'"
"Why?" I asked.
"In case first one rips," answered Ravi sheepishly, looking for anger in my face.
Grrr ... very funny.
So we make a few coins, we eat, we have some fun, and we get farther and farther north.
Soon, Rangoon.
Chapter 11
Aboard our Eastern Star, we had followed the line of fishing boats past tiny villages up what I later discovered was the Rangoon River to the city itself, and oh, what a sight it is! Glorious golden spires, dozens of them, reaching way up into the sky. I, who have seen the Cathedral of Saint Paul's, in London, and the Notre Dame, in Paris, stand awestruck at the splendor.
"What ... what are they, Ravi?"
"I believe they are called pagodas, Sangeeta," he says. "They are the most holy shrines of the Buddhists. My master, Mr. Elphy, visit here one time and he come ... came ... back and told his whole household of all the glories of this city. I remember sitting before him, rapt with wonder at his tales."
The Splendor of the Orient, indeed...
&nbs
p; Well, so much for sightseeing, my goggle-eyed girl, let us get on with things, shall we?
As we approach the wharf area, I spy a ship, a merchantman, flying the Union Jack and lying portside to one of the many piers. Cargo is being loaded aboard. My heart leaps to see the familiar flag once again as I pull the tiller over to head for the merchant's side.
"Ahoy, mates!" Surprised eyes peer over the side, gaping down at an apparition in ragged clothes and pigtail, speaking to them in Cockney English. "'Ave you been seein' three ships sailin' by on your way here and they was maybe flyin' the American and British colors?"
"And just who, darlin', are you?" asks the grinning rogue above me.
"Me name is Jacky Faber," I says, without thinking too hard about that. I mean, who out here would have heard of—
"Ha! Jacky Faber? Bloody Jack? Hell, Puss-in-Boots is dead ten times over, by God, and rottin' in 'er grave! Look, I gots a tattoo here to prove it!"
The sod pulls up his sleeve to show the kitten-with-sword tattoo with the word Vengeance writ large above it.
"See? She 'ad 'er bloody 'ead cut off by them Froggies!"
Other grinning sailors have joined him at the rail.
"Maybe so, but that weren't me," I says, pushing on, anxious to change the subject. "The ships I'm askin' 'bout, Jocko, was two merchants, the Lorelei Lee and the Cerberus, and the HMS Dart, a Royal Navy sloop of war. Seen 'em?"
The sods look at each other and shake their heads.
"Nay. We spotted a small ship flyin' Yankee colors a few days out of Bombay, but that's about it. Tiny ship, hardly worth the mention."
Heavy sigh by me, but I really didn't expect to see my lost fleet here. Huh, from Commodore to common tramp in one swift fall. Oh, well...
"Say, lass, how'd a nice Cockney bint loike you get all chinked up loike that, 'ey?"
